Stone Kiss (48 page)

He went over to the Montero and peered inside.

“Neat. This belongs to a different animal. A Dwight Yoakam CD cover…a pack of Camels… nothing much else.” He checked out the
rear bumper. “A D.A.R.E. to Keep Kids off Drugs sticker. Well, well, well. We definitely know who we’re working with.”

“Merrin.”

“Someone in law enforcement.”

“Ironic,” Jonathan said. “I mean… if you think he’s selling ecstasy. And he has the sticker…”

“If I were back home, I could call in the plates. If I were back home, I could also call for backup.” Decker turned to his
brother. “But I’m not back home. We should leave. If Chaim’s a willing partner in this, why should I risk my life to save
him?”

“And what if he isn’t a willing partner?”

“Then he’s probably dead.”

“Or being questioned… questioned roughly…” The rabbi shuddered. “My wife lost one brother… I’d hate to think that we’ve come
this far only to leave another one behind. But you know better.”

No one spoke.

Decker finally said, “Show me the warehouse.”

Jonathan took the flashlight and they walked toward the destination. Neither spoke as muck squished under their shoes. Five
minutes later, the giant barn became visible because light was coming from a lower window. It was typical in structure—a large
parabolic shape that peaked in a roof gable—but someone had modified it for its use as a warehouse. The great door and apron,
traditionally used as a passageway to let the animals in and out, had been replaced by a set of double doors that led out
to a concrete driveway and loading dock. On either side of the doors were windows stacked three stories high, the lower right
window being the illuminated one.
Above the great door should have been the sliding doors, but they had been boarded up. The hay doors on the upper level looked
to be intact.

The rain was starting to pick up. Neither man appeared to notice.

“What does it look like inside?” Decker asked him.

“Shelves filled with boxes.”

“More than one level?”

Jonathan tried to re-create a mental image. Both he and Decker were whispering. “Most of it is on one level with very high
shelving. Wide aisles because the guys use a forklift to bring the merchandise up and down. But there is a second level with
shelves as well. It’s an open loft, I believe.”

“Probably the original hayloft.”

“I suppose. Should we call the State Police for help?”

“I can’t get a line out. Even if I could, I’m sure Merrin or one of his cohorts has a multiband radio that picks up cellular
calls.” Ideas turned over in Decker’s brain. “Do you know what room corresponds to that lit window?”

“Haven’t a clue. But it’s not near the entrance I was talking about.” Jonathan stared at the barn. “That door is on the left
side. Right below an outside spiral staircase.”

Each one waited for the other to act. Then Jonathan made a decision, moving toward the structure. “I want to do everything
I can.”

Decker followed. “If you can say that after what happened in the van, you’re dedicated.”

“Or stupid.”

“Sometimes it’s one and the same.”

The rain was falling at a steady clip, blocking out the noise made by their shoes trampling over brush. Decker tightened the
hood on his waterproof jacket. His hands were encased in nylon gloves. By the time they reached the door, it was pouring.
They ducked under an awning as the rain beat tom-toms on the cloth. Decker reached for the door—locked of course. He pointed
the flashlight’s beam between the metal escutcheon and the doorframe.

“It’s a latch bolt,” Decker said.

“Which means?”

“I can probably open it with a credit card. The point is…do I want to do it?”

“You may only have one bullet,” Jonathan told him. “But they don’t know that. Besides, the lit window is on the opposite side.”

“Someone may be guarding the doors. He’ll hear me as soon as I try to spring the latch.” A long hesitation. “Well, there’s
a quick way to find out.”

Shoving Jonathan against the wall, Decker covered his brother’s body with his, then quietly tapped the door.

Nothing.

Another gentle rap failed to produce any response.

“Take off the plastic from your shoes.” Decker was doing the same thing. “It makes too much noise.” After the plastic bags
had been removed, he handed Jonathan the gun. “Cover me.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Do you see anyone else around?” Decker took out the credit card and gently maneuvered it between the bolt and the catch.
A moment later, the doorknob rotated without any hindrance. “I’ve got it. Kill the light. Let’s hope the alarm doesn’t trip.”

Jonathan turned off the flashlight. Decker began to turn the knob… millimeters at a time. Finally, he pushed on the handle
and the door crept inward.

Slowly… slowly… slowly.

The door freed itself from the frame.

Nothing sounded.

“The alarm’s off,” Decker told his brother. “Is that good or bad?”

“Don’t know, but it’s a safe bet that Chaim’s inside.”

Slowly, slowly, slowly, Decker pushed the door inward.

Inch after inch.

A quarter of the way open.

Then halfway.

When there was enough room for them to squeeze through, Decker grabbed his brother, pulled him inside, and silently closed
the door.

Darkness was the welcome mat. Even after his eyes adjusted, Decker couldn’t make out anything distinct. The interior was a
vast
space of specters and phantoms, of giant shadows and black holes. Rain slithered down the tall windows, dripping like open
veins of black blood. A flash of lightning from afar, a clap of distant thunder. Neither man moved or spoke. A few moments
passed; then Decker heard blurred background noises—a hint of human speech. It was hard to tell because of the clacking of
the rain.

He took several steps in the direction of the sounds. An unwanted smell reached Decker’s nose at the same time his sneaker
caught on something, pitching his body forward. He barely recovered without making noise. He looked down, then bent down to
study the solid object at his feet.

The corpse was fresh. Decker studied the face and decided he had never seen it before. But everything about him said cop:
the way he dressed, the type of haircut, the furrows in the face, the roughened hands and fingernails, even his gut. He appeared
to be in his forties.

“Someone took care of the guard for us.” Decker stood up. “Let’s get out of here.”

Jonathan nodded quickly.

If timing was everything, theirs was exquisitely off. As soon as Decker turned, he saw him. Jonathan saw him, too, judging
by the sound of his gasp. The kid had evil in his eyes, and cold steel in his hand. He had probably heard them come in. He
smirked, his face radiating glee at the prospect of killing, of snuffing out human life. Decker reached into his empty pocket,
realizing too late that Jonathan hadn’t given him back the snub-nose. The seconds became protracted as he watched the teen
lift the weapon. Decker felt the horror of his last breath, his own fear mirrored by the terror on Jonathan’s face. Too far
away to take down, and not enough time anyway. As Satan aimed, Decker looped his arm around his brother’s neck, taking them
headfirst to the floor and into a puddle of newly spilled blood.

Waiting for the hit.

But nothing happened because the boy’s head was suddenly whipped back. Going down in slow motion. The fingers releasing the
grip of the weapon, the gun falling from the hand, the knees buckling, and the neat round bullet hole in the forehead. A shadow
appeared with outstretched arms, first catching the gun, then the body. Dressed in black, he silently lowered the corpse to
the cement floor. He put a finger in front of his lips, then extended a latex-gloved left hand. In a single swoop, Decker
was pulled to his feet. The face was covered with black makeup streaked with perspiration. The entire body reeked of sweat.
The right hand was still holding the purloined gun.

After Jonathan was on his feet, the shadow beckoned them with an index finger, then turned his back, expecting them to follow.
Wearing a black backpack, he walked soundlessly and assuredly until he came to a half flight of stairs. He scaled the steps,
then nodded for Decker to come up, which he did, helping his shaking brother up onto a platform. It was no bigger than three
feet square with an overhead clearance of about four feet. They were compressed, but Decker quickly understood the usefulness
of the spot; it had an unobstructed view of the warehouse. His thighs bunching as he squatted, Decker scoped out the area.

Several silent ticks passed.

Donatti whispered, “You can’t say I didn’t try to warn you.”

Decker wiped blood from his face and blinked tears from his eyes. He had the sudden urge to laugh but refrained. Emotions
were reeling inside him. He whispered, “You shot out the van.”

“Not me, personally,” Donatti replied. “I thought it would hang you up for a couple of hours, give me enough time to get in
and out. You just fucked up everything!”

“We were on our way to the airport.” Decker was still breathing hard. “To JFK to talk to Hershfield about some drug dealers
that airport security had caught. But after the van was shot out—barely on its last legs—Jonathan suggested the warehouse
because it was closer. If you had left us alone, we wouldn’t have even been here.”

Donatti stared at him, then silently mouthed a series of swear words. “Might as well make yourself useful.” He handed him
the dead boy’s gun, then turned his colorless eyes on Jonathan. “There’s more where that came from. Can you shoot?”

“He’s a rabbi, not a sniper,” Decker said.

“Then get him out of here.”

“My number one priority.”

“Except you can’t go out the way you came in. An alarm will sound.”

“I got in without anything going off.”

Donatti said, “It’s a one-way emergency exit. Trust me.”

“Then how do I get him out?”

Donatti didn’t answer. His breathing was labored as water cascaded off his brow.

“You don’t look good, Chris,” Decker said. “What’s wrong?”

“Shut up and let me think.”

Five minutes went by, nothing but the sound of the rain.

“You don’t look
good
,” Decker whispered, “but you look
calm
.”

“I am calm. I’m in my element.”

More time passed.

Decker examined the gun in his hands. A Smith & Wesson 9mm automatic, double action. He wasn’t sure which model, but it probably
had a magazine of about twelve rounds. It didn’t smell as if it had been recently fired, the barrel was cool to the touch.
Of course, it was frosty inside. Decker could see his breath. He glanced at Jonathan, crouched by his side. He was trembling
hard, no doubt from fear, but the physical position they were in was anything but comfortable. Decker placed his hand on his
brother’s unsteady knee. “Just another few minutes.”

Jonathan nodded. “I’m okay.”

“All right, this is the deal,” Donatti whispered. “There are five doors—front door, one emergency exit on each side, and two
doors in back. The emergency exits are alarmed to go off when you leave and the front door is where the powwow’s being held.
That leaves the back doors. Go for the closest one.”

Silence.

Donatti continued. “There was a cop on each alarmed side door, a pair of kids on each back door, and maybe a couple of cops
at the front entrance. I’ve taken care of one cop and a kid— You know, you’re damn lucky I recognized you when you came in.”

Decker said, “It’s your artistic eye. Where was that kid stationed?”

“The one I took out? One of the back doors, which means his partner’s gonna get antsy if he doesn’t come back soon. Let’s
put some lead
in it.” He slipped off his backpack and pulled out a small set of binoculars. “It should be a piece of cake with two of us…
if your eye is good.”

“Are you asking me if I’m a good shot?”

“Yes.”

“I’m good.”

“Then we’re fine, because I’m great.” Donatti handed Decker the infrared binoculars. Through them, the warehouse looked like
daylight. “See that red wooden sign? The letter
N
.”

“Got it.”

“Put it center in the crosshairs.”

“Okay.”

“Clockwise one-fifty degrees.”

“There are two of them. What are they? Like a couple hundred yards away?”

“Yeah.” Donatti looked at Decker’s gun. “You can’t use that in the dark.” He took a case out and opened it up, pulling out
a pistol. “Basically, it’s a Walther double-action automatic except I’ve modified it for accuracy at longer range and added
an infrared scope and silencer for obvious reasons. Swap you?”

They exchanged firearms. Decker hefted the gun. “Not too heavy.”

“No need for overkill. Standard nine-millimeter Parabellum and twenty-two LR. With all the customization, it cost me about
fifteen hundred bucks. I’ll probably have to lose it after this is all over. Damn shame.” He stowed the kid’s gun in his backpack
and took out his own customized handgun, complete with scope and silencer. “We do them; then you can make your move through
the back entrance.”

Decker studied the faces in the scope, feeling his heart drop. Two lanky boys, one maybe a couple of inches taller than the
other, both of them holding that gaping-mouth confused expression commonly stamped on teenage males. Their cheeks still held
a smattering of adolescent pimples. His brain flashed to his own sons. “They’re kids. Eighteen tops.”

“I was that age once,” Donatti pointed out.

A very convincing argument, but Decker wasn’t ready to make the jump. “I’m a police officer. I can’t shoot them without warning.”

“Oh, that’s clever,” Donatti mocked. “Why don’t you go all the way and paint a bull’s-eye on your forehead?”

“I can’t shoot them without giving them warning first.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Donatti, I’ll announce myself. If they don’t drop immediately, then we can—”

“If we give them warning, they’ll shoot, then scatter. Then we’ll have a real problem.”